


Days to Remember

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Drinking, First Time, Fix-It, Frottage, Homecoming, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Loss, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Secret Crush, Sharing a Bed, Status Effects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-26 14:19:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12060735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: Back before they were friends, Prompto used to think about the way Noct's hand felt in his, helping him to his feet. Now that they see each other daily, he has every shoulder pat, or elbow nudge, or accidental brush of their fingers to replay in his mind, in high definition, every night before he falls asleep.





	1. Realization

**Author's Note:**

> For Promptis week, I decided to do a a single fic, with one chapter each day to match the prompts. This is for the first day: "Realization - the moment they knew it was love."
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! The first chapter is a little short, but the rest are longer. The rating is for set for a future chapter. o/

There's a light on in Prompto's living room.

He feels kind of like a zombie, all shuffled steps and aching calves from his shift at the camera shop – a full eight hours, since it's a Saturday and he doesn't have school. But the sight of that square, lit golden from somewhere inside, makes him stop in the middle of the walkway and stare, tired legs forgotten.

The sun's long since down, and it's not bright out here, like it is closer to the city center; there's sleepy little houses, and the odd streetlight, and not a whole lot else. It makes that window stand out like a painting on some gallery wall.

Prompto can't tear his eyes away.

It's been years since the last time he came home to someone. Middle school, maybe – that time his mom stopped in unexpectedly between a trip to Altissia and another to Galahd. She made chilli, and Prompto followed her around the kitchen like she'd disappear if he let her out of his sight, right up until she'd tripped over him one time too many and told him to go wait in the other room.

But here it is again: that light in the window.

Here it is, but neither of his parents are due back until next month, at the earliest.

Prompto's hands are a bit unsteady, working the key into the lock. It takes him three tries.

"Mom?" he says, when he opens the door. "Dad?"

It's neither of them. It's Noct, voice drifting out from the kitchen: "Nah," he says. "Just me."

Prompto blinks. He closes and locks the door, on autopilot – kicks off his shoes. Then his feet are carrying him toward the kitchen, without so much as a nod of input from his brain.

The sight that greets him brings him up short.

Spread out on the table, there are a handful of boxes wrapped in bright paper. All of them are immaculate; two have sprays of shining gold ribbon.

And there, back behind them, almost lost amid the clutter, is a cake. It's pretty, and sleek: dark chocolate, from the looks of it, with raspberries dotted here and there along the top. There are a couple of candles sticking out of it.

"Uh," says Prompto.

Noct's fussing with the last candle, just easing it in, but he looks up now. "Hey," he says. "I let myself in."

Prompto's still staring.

"You never took the spare back after Specs picked up our science fair project," says Noct, looking a little embarrassed now.

Prompto's _still_ staring.

"What," he manages. "What the hell."

There are no easy answers. There's a quirk to Noct's lips, and an unfamiliar tip of his head, but other than that, Prompto has no damn idea how to read that expression.

Noct's face might as well be a tome from ancient Solheim, only he'd probably actually do better with the tome, because at least that would have those creepy old-fashioned pen and ink illustrations like the ones in his art history textbook.

"It's your birthday," says Noct, like that actually explains anything.

"Well," says Prompto. "Yeah. But didn't you have some state dinner tonight?"

Noct's eyes skirt to the side, to find the place where the wall meets the floor. "I begged off," he says. Then he pauses a beat – seems to win an internal debate with himself, and adds: "Okay, Specs pulled some strings."

"Dude," says Prompto.

"Might still be pulling a string or two," Noct admits. "Anyway, I'll owe him. It's no big deal."

Prompto's mouth works, but he can't quite put together the words he needs. Whatever Noct says, it's kind of a big deal.

"I know," says Noct, and then proves he doesn't know when he adds: "Bad form, right? He wanted to come, too. I told him we'd have a real party next weekend, and that shut him up." Noct lifts one shoulder and lets it fall – kind of grimaces. "Gladio was harder to pull on board."

"Gladio?" says Prompto, feeling like he can't quite keep up with the conversation. He probably looks like the world's biggest idiot.

Lucky for him, Noct's used to him looking like an idiot, so he doesn't miss a beat before he says, "There were a lot of strings to pull."

"For cake," says Prompto, a little helplessly.

"Yep," Noct agrees. "For cake. Happy birthday, buddy."

He slides an arm around Prompto's shoulders.

It's not even a hug, really. It's kind of an awkward half-hug. But everywhere Noct's arm touches, Prompto can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his work uniform.

When Prompto turns his head, he takes a breath in and forgets to let it out again. He's got the world's best view of the lines of Noct's cheekbones, pretty enough to be the subject of some classical painter's brush, and Noct's eyes, the color of the sky just before full dark

The part of Prompto that's been nurturing a private crush since he was all of twelve years old rises up in him, that same fluttering not-quite-panic beating inside like the wings of a hummingbird. Tonight, somehow, it's mellower than it ever used to be.

It aches, almost.

And Prompto thinks: oh.

Oh, no.


	2. Bed Sharing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Bed Sharing
> 
> Thanks so much to the folks who left comments and kudos! I really appreciate it. :)

The couch in Noct's new apartment is pretty damn comfy.

You wouldn't think so, to look at it. It looks like the console in some old sci-fi movie space ship, sleek and smooth. It looks like someone sculpted it out of titanium. It looks like the razor-sharp lines of it could cut you if you actually sat on it, but no. Whoever designed this thing knew what they were doing.

This couch has got it all: looks _and_ padding. It's the kind of couch you never want to leave, and that's all well and good on a Saturday afternoon, when you don't have plans the rest of the night, but it's definitely not Saturday afternoon. It's eleven thirty on a Tuesday, after a five-hour study session.

Prompto's eyes feel grainy, and he's full of Iggy leftovers, easily the best dinner he's had in two weeks. Then Noct had to go and make hot chocolate, and warm milk always does him in, so now he's about five minutes from passing right the hell out on this masterpiece of couch craftsmanship.

He really needs to leave.

He needs to leave before he misses his last train, or worse – catches it and then falls asleep on the ride home.

He's done that before. Definitely not his finest hour.

So the reasonable part of Prompto's brain is saying, "Hey, now would be a good time to get up."

Prompto, who isn't on speaking terms with the reasonable part of his brain, says, "I think I'm in love with your couch," buries his face in the handrest, and lets his eyes slip closed.

He can hear Noct's laugh, warm and low. He can feel Noct's finger reach out to prod him, playfully, in the ribs.

"Careful," he says. "You're gonna make me jealous."

Prompto's heart does a strange little lurch-skip at that. He knows it's a joke – he does. But dammit, he'd give up his right arm to hear Noct say something like that with genuine intent.

"Weren't you supposed to be leaving?" says the reasonable part of Prompto's brain.

Prompto ignores it and says, "We're gonna elope. There'll be white roses at the wedding. We'll have the cutest human-couch hybrid babies."

"Ew," says Noct, laughing. "Gross."

Prompto cracks an eye open and steals a peek at his best friend's face. It's gone a dusky sort of pink. It's a good look on him – but then, it's stupidly hard to find something that isn't a good look on him. "If you insult my imaginary future children," says Prompto, "I'm not gonna have them call you Uncle Noct."

Noct snorts; the couch creaks as he moves to stand. "Well, how bout I get you a blanket to share with your lady love?"

Prompto's other eye cracks open. He really must be tired, because something about that sentence isn't connecting. "Huh?"

"It's 12:15," says Noct. "You just missed your last train."

Prompto sits bolt upright. He stares at the clock, and it stares back at him, in indelible red letters. "Aw, man," he says. "A cab from here's gonna be stupid expensive."

Noct rolls his eyes. "You're not taking a cab home. Just sleep over."

Prompto's still staring at the clock, like if he looks long enough, it'll roll back in time and give him an extra thirty minutes. "I don't even have a toothbrush."

Noct lifts one shoulder in an off-handed shrug. "I've got a spare from my last trip to the dentist."

"And my school uniform's gonna be nasty by tomorrow," Prompto groans.

"I've got extras," says Noct. "Just wear one of mine and crash on the couch. C'mon – what's the big deal?"

It shouldn't be a big deal. Prompto's parents are out of town until the end of February; they won't even know he's gone. He can borrow Noct's toothbrush, Noct's clothes, Noct's shower. In the morning, they'll wake up in the same apartment, and for the first time in literal years, Prompto will have someone to talk to during breakfast.

It shouldn't be a big deal, but those hummingbird wings are back, thrumming inside him until his heart's pounding.

Back before they were friends, Prompto used to think about the way Noct's hand felt in his, helping him to his feet. Now that they see each other daily, he has every shoulder pat, or elbow nudge, or accidental brush of their fingers to replay in his mind, in high definition, every night before he falls asleep.

It shouldn't be a big deal, but Prompto can't seem to make his mouth form an answer.

"Or, I mean," says Noct, and that dusky pink tinge is back in his cheeks. "If you don't want to take the couch, my bed's pretty big? I don't mind sharing."

For a second, Prompto's sure his heart's going to explode. "What?" he croaks. "Seriously?"

"Sure," says Noct. "I've got pajamas, too, if you need em."

The reasonable part of Prompto's brain says, very loudly: "Tell him the couch is fine."

Prompto, in a moment of either sheer optimistic bravery or blinding idiocy, says, "Okay, yeah. Let's share. If, like. If that's cool."

And that's how, thirty minutes later, Prompto is showered and wearing a pair of black silk pajamas. That's how he's tucked under the blankets beside his best friend, hardly daring to breathe.

That's how it comes to be that his chest does something painful and complicated when Noct reaches over to flip the switch on the lamp on his bedside table.

"Night," says Noct, soft voice drifting up out of the darkened room.

"Yeah," says Prompto, caught between regretting every choice he's ever made and having an absolute celebration of whatever twist of fate brought him to this point. "G'night."


	3. Late Night Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Late Night Talk
> 
> Hope you guys are still enjoying. Thank you so much for all the sweet comments. <3

Prompto hears about it on the news.

He's in line at the coffee shop, waiting on his order, and there it is, over on the TV mounted on the wall in the corner. The sound's down, but the closed captions flicker along the bottom, and those captions say, "Crown Prince Noctis, according to the Citadel's press conference earlier this afternoon, is to wed Lady Lunafreya Nox Fleuret in a ceremony slated for this fall."

Prompto stares up at the screen for a good five minutes, eyes getting progressively wider. The barrista behind the counter has to come out and tap him on the shoulder to tell him his coffee's ready. Prompto, dumbfounded, takes it and stares down at it like his hand's grown some weird, coffee-shaped appendage.

Then he walks outside. He stands blinking up at the sky for another five minutes or so, until he gets it together and sends a text to Noct. "heard the news. congrats, dude!"

He hesitates – sends another: "coulda told me, tho. how can i throw you a bachelor's party without all the info?? :p"

It takes seventeen minutes for the reply to come, not like he's keeping track or anything.

"found out yesterday," the text reads, when he gets it.

Then, two minutes later: "i need a drink."

Seven minutes after that: "come drinking with me tonight?"

Prompto's stomach is twisting in strange and unpleasant ways, and he can't decide if it's because a part of him is dying, or if it's because he's picturing Noct, sitting in a sea of uncaring faces, watching a bunch of diplomats make plans for his life.

"sure thing, buddy," Prompto texts back. "just gimme a time and place."

The time is 11 o'clock tonight. The place is a shitty little dive bar closer to Prompto's neighborhood than Noct's, where they go sometimes when Noct doesn't want to be seen.

Prompto sits himself down on a bar stool and orders – figures he could use the fortification before they get started. By 11:30, Prompto's two drinks in and Noct's still a no show. By 12, it's three drinks, and Prompto's pretty sure he's been stood up.

He's just standing to head toward the door when Noct comes in, dressed the closest he does to incognito: a t-shirt, trucker hat, and ugly, puffy vest. He stands there in the doorway for a minute, hesitating – spots Prompto and beelines over, sliding onto the empty stool next to him. The Crownsguard tailing him are in plainclothes tonight; they slip in and lose themselves in the crowd, but Prompto knows they'll be keeping an eye on the prince.

"Sorry I'm late," Noct says, and reaches over to finish Prompto's drink.

Noct looks _tired_. The bags under his eyes are like someone punched him in the face, and there's a pinched look to the way he sets his lips.

"That bad, huh?" Prompto says, and waves a hand at the bartender. He points at the empty glass, holds up two fingers, and gets a thumbs up in reply.

"I mean, I knew it'd happen eventually. But I kind of thought –" Noct cuts himself off. He glances aside. "It's stupid."

Prompto reaches over to poke him in the ribs, through the fluffy protection of the vest. "C'mon, dude. You can't stop there."

Noct takes a breath in. He lets it out, carefully. He says: "I kind of always thought they'd at least ask me, you know?"

Prompto feels something go cold inside himself. For the first time in hours, that sense of twisting dread is more sympathy than self-pity. "When's it supposed to be?"

"Two months from now," says Noct. "In Altissia."

"Kinda soon," says Prompto, trying to ignore that every one of those words feels like being stabbed in the gut. "What's the rush?"

"What else?" says Noct, tone creeping bitter for just a minute. "Politics."

For a second, Prompto can't think of anything to say. It's good timing, because the bartender sets their drinks down just then, and Noct takes a minute to drain his straight, put the glass down, and ask for another.

"Well," says Prompto, when the bartender's gone. "She's pretty, at least? And, like. Sweet. Everyone says how sweet she is."

He has proof of how sweet she is – a letter to some loser nobody, tucked away in his drawer like the miracle it is.

"Luna's great," says Noct. "It's not about that. She's – we used to be friends."

Prompto slides his drink over in front of Noct. He says: "So what is it, then?"

Noct looks at the offered drink. He lifts it, and takes a sip, and puts it back down. "We're staying in Altissia for like six months after the wedding," he says.

And Prompto, who always knew this day was coming – who's been half-expecting to lose his best friend to the powers that be for going on five years now – still isn't ready for how much it hurts. He means to say something comforting, but all he can find inside himself is, "Oh."

All at once, he knows how the next two months will go. They'll hang out once or twice, but as the time rushes by, more of Noct's days will go to suit fittings and wedding plans. By the big day, he won't have time for more than a few words of farewell, and then he'll be gone, a blank spot in Prompto's life where there used to be a friend.

Prompto takes a breath in – puts on a smile, somehow. "Don't take off before I've got your new address, okay? You better believe I'm gonna write you every week."

Noct's in the middle of taking another sip from the drink, but at that, he lowers the glass and turns to look at Prompto. And he _really_ looks, hard, like it's the first time he's ever seen him. "I talked to Specs about that," says Noct.

"What," says Prompto. "Me writing?"

"You not writing," says Noct. He picks at the paper drink rest with one fingernail. "Did you know, I can't have personal guests at my own wedding?"

"Dude," says Prompto. "That sucks." It _does_ suck. But against the steady downward spiral this day has been, the idea that Noct had wanted him there lights a little flicker of warmth in Prompto's chest, anyway.

"No guests," Noct repeats. "But Iggy – he had some ideas."

Noct's unfolding a sheaf of papers from his vest pocket, now. He's sliding it over the bar top. Prompto looks down at it when it stops in front of him.

It reads: Insomnian Crownsguard Recruit Application Form.

Prompto looks up from the sheet of paper. He thinks he should probably be more sober for this, because it might damn well affect the rest of his life.

Noct's face is still tight with stress, with worry, with a hundred things Prompto can't place. His eyes flicker sideways, and he says, "I can have a personal guard. Three, max. Iggy and Gladio are a given, but, well... there's another spot open, if you want it."

Prompto's mouth works. He can think of about twenty reasons to say no, right off the bat. Among them is the not so insignificant fact that he can't fight, and that maybe Noct's personal guard ought to be able to, you know, actually guard him.

The reasonable part of Prompto's brain, which has mostly given up on convincing him of anything and now only occasionally attempts to talk some sense into him, is saying firmly that this is the worst idea ever.

But Prompto's already grinning, crooked and unbearably fond. "Dude," he says. "Does that mean I get to wear the uniform?"


	4. Good Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: Good Enough
> 
> Thank you again so much to the kind folks who have left comments and kudos! Hope you enjoy! :)

Pull it together, Prompto tells himself.

His body has other ideas, though, and those ideas include bracing one palm against the rough bark of a tree while he leans over and noisily pukes up everything in his stomach.

Pull it together, he tells himself again, and then doubles over a second time, retching just as hard.

"Hey!" Gladio calls from the other side of the clearing. "You wanna pull it together over there? These things are hard to hit with a sword, case you didn't notice!"

Prompto has noticed. He's also noticed the black and yellow striped abdomens damn near the size of his own torso, and see-through wings that beat the air around his head in a rushing wave, and wicked stingers, one of which just so happens to be broken off in his forearm. It's as wide as three fingers put together, and it's buried there in his skin, and the blood's dripping down like the wax on a red candle his mom used to have when he was little, tiny rivulets that pool and run.

There's nothing left in his stomach, but Prompto retches again.

Distantly, he's aware that Ignis has switched to his knives; he's throwing pitch-perfect arcs to take out the killer bees still buzzing around overhead. He's aware of Noct, shards of blue brilliance and the flash of a blade in sunlight, warping and lunging in a stunning display of aerial acrobatics. He's aware of Gladio, increasingly frustrated that their enemies are out of reach, taking great, swinging blows whenever they dart into range.

They look like heroes out of some legend. They look like characters in some badass RPG. And here Prompto is, down for the count again, throwing up against a tree.

Prompto closes his eyes and waits for the wave of dizziness to go by, but another sweeps over him and almost knocks him on his ass.

He swallows, hard – calls out, "Hey, anybody got a potion?"

They're too busy to stop and help – or maybe they just don't hear. There's a lot going on; Prompto gets it. Those buzzing wings are _loud_.

But Gladio's right. Can't be a sharpshooter if you're not actually shooting at anything, and they aren't going to get through this fight without some guns. So he lifts his revolver – aims and fires, again and again.

It's tricky target work, with Noct up there in the way, and the world seems to tilt and swirl, but Prompto's got this. Guns are about the only thing he's any good at, so like hell he'll let everyone down when they're counting on him.

Prompto squeezes the trigger, over and over. He tracks the bugs across the sky. He fights down the weird, floaty, dizzy feeling that keeps threatening to knock him over, and he's pretty sure – he's pretty sure he's doing okay. Right up until Ignis says, "He seems a bit touched."

Does Iggy mean _him_?

There's no way. Prompto's – Prompto's doing just fine. So what if he's reeling like he's been out all night drinking with Noct? So what if the field of his vision is too bright, too blurry, too bold, and everything's beating down on him?

So what if there's buzzing in his ears, so close his teeth vibrate, and he swings around and fires blind, and there's a noise somewhere up above him that he thinks he knows, thinks he understands. So what if he's sinking down on the ground, groaning, head feeling like a rotten melon, swollen and overripe, while somewhere in the background Ignis is calling Noct's name.

Time jitters. It blurs a little. The world is beating wings and stinging pain and the roar of his gun.

Prompto sits down at one point, then realizes there's a fight going on, and stands up. Then he sits down again, because he'd been doing something, right? He must have had a reason for sitting down.

"Gods dammit, we need you on your _feet_ ," growls a voice, and suddenly there's a hand on the back of his head, shoving him forward, and a sharp scent in his nose, and Prompto blinks, and blinks again, and the world comes suddenly clear.

It's like some melty dreamscape of watercolors snaps out of view and the high def of a digital camera shot slips in to take its place. Gladio's standing above him, looking pissed.

"You wanna shoot some bees instead of your king, this time?" he growls.

What? That can't be – that can't be right.

Prompto rockets to his feet so fast he stumbles and almost goes over, but Gladio holds him up by the elbow. Prompto's heart is going about a hundred miles an hour too fast, flighty and strange with something like panic.

"I hit Noct?" he hears himself say, and his voice is thin and reedy, higher pitched than usual.

"You were pretty out of it," Gladio acknowledges, gruffly.

"I hit _Noct_?" There's a definite edge of hysteria to his tone now.

Prompto moves to turn away – twists in Gladio's grasp to head toward the place where Noct's lying on the ground, Ignis crouched over him.

Gladio doesn't let him go. He just tightens the hold and gives Prompto a little shake. "You don't get it together, a lot worse than you is gonna hit him."

Prompto looks up at the air above them. It's still thick with buzzing insects.

Noct's still down, and Ignis is busy. Gladio can't reach.

It's just Prompto right now. Prompto, who's had all of a month of self-defense lessons. Prompto, who burns toast and trips over his own shoelaces. Prompto, who just lost his mind in the middle of combat and shot his own best friend.

Prompto's known since he was six years old that he's not very good at anything. He's clumsy, and awkward with people, and kind of a loser. But he doesn't have to be amazing, not for this. He just has to buy them a little time.

He just has to hold it together for another couple of minutes.

For Noct, he thinks, he can do it.


	5. Getting Caught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: Getting Caught
> 
> Thank you guys for sticking with me. Only two more chapters after this! Man, Promptis week has been a blast! :)

Gladio sounds like an angry garula when he snores.

Prompto's never appreciated that fact before, but now, at 2 am, with the only light the faint glow filtering in through the blinds from the street lights outside, it strikes him as the funniest thing ever.

He can't see the rest of the room; Gladio's bulk is like a contained mountain beside him, blocking everything except the wall that stretches away to his left. Prompto has about six inches of bed space to his name – the downside to sharing with the world's biggest dude – but more importantly, he can't see whether Noct and Iggy are still awake.

Probably they're sleeping.

Probably, they've been sleeping for hours now, which is what Prompto should be doing, because they have to get up early and he's gonna hate himself when it's time to crawl out of bed. But Gladio sounds like an angry garula, and now that Prompto's thought it, he can't _un_ think it, and if he doesn't share it with someone, he might explode.

So Prompto fishes his phone out. He opens his text history with Noct, and he taps in: "noct are u awake."

He waits a few seconds, then sends: "nooooooct."

There's no answer.

Of course there's no answer. Since when is Noct ever up at two in the morning?

Prompto's just about convinced himself to get over it and go to sleep like a normal person when his phone buzzes. It's from Noct, and it says "you are such a dork. you know i'm literally ten feet away from you, right?"

Prompto grins up at the ceiling.

He taps out: "gladio sounds like a garula," and he knows exactly when Noct reads it, because a snort of laughter from across the room gives him away.

The reply takes about fifteen seconds. "with its head down, right before it charges."

This time, it's Prompto who has to fight down a laugh, biting hard on his lip to keep it in. "picture him with the trunk."

He can't hear any muffled snickering, but a second later, Noct shoots back: "stop it, if i laugh i'll wake up specs."

Prompto grins harder. "oooooh," he sends. "gonna get in trouble with mom. :p"

Noct's reply is immediate: "i'll tell him it's your fault."

"that's cheating!!!" Prompto sends in answer.

He means to add more. He means to say that it's cruel and unusual punishment to throw a guy under the bus, when that bus happens to be Ignis Scientia.

But a thought strikes him, then, from nowhere: that he's missed this, just the two of them fooling around. Late nights watching dumb movies, and weekends at the arcade. Lunch time in the cafeteria back in high school, and that awesome ramen place they used to hit up in the late, lazy hours of the afternoon.

Nostalgia sweeps over him like a wave, and suddenly, he wants to be somewhere he can see Noct's face, not lying here in the dark staring at words on a screen. "hey," he taps. "wanna ditch? we can't wake em up if we're not here."

This time, the reply takes longer. He's sure that it's because Noct's coming up with a creative way to tell Prompto he can pry an actual, comfortable bed out of his cold, dead hands. Then his phone buzzes, and he looks down, and all it says is: "k."

So Prompto slips out of bed. He edges around the side of it, careful not to wake Gladio or Ignis. He can see Noct waiting by the door, an indistinct figure in the dim lighting.

Noct reaches for the handle, and they step out into the hall, where the flickering light illuminates cheery red-orange paint and a squat green potted cactus. Noct fixes him with a long look – lounges against the wall, like he wouldn't mind being here all night.

"Something up?" he asks.

Prompto flusters, taken off guard. He says, "I was just thinking, I bet we can see the lights from the power plant up on the roof."

"Another rooftop?" says Noct, drily. "You trying to start a tradition or something?"

Prompto grins and pokes him in the side. "We're gonna have to work way harder if we want a tradition, dude. Pretty sure two times doesn't cut it."

With that, he heads for the stairwell, and after a beat of silence, Noct falls in behind him.

Prompto wonders what the other guests would make of them, wandering the halls in pajamas and bedhead. At least Noct has classy pajamas. Prompto's got an old t-shirt and chocobo-print boxers. If there was anyone around to see it, he'd probably be embarrassed as hell.

But they don't see anyone on the way up to the rooftop, and there's nothing but the sound of their footsteps to follow them out beneath the moon.

Lestallum looks different at night. Up above them, the whole sky's a wash of tiny white stars; below them, the flickering golden glow of the lights in the marketplace illuminate small figures talking with friends, or shopping at stalls, or nibbling at food on sticks. A man with a guitar and a boy with drums have set up on one of the larger streets; the music drifts up to them in bits and snatches, muted by distance. Prompto was right: they can just make out the flickering blue glow from the power plant, all the way on the other side of the city.

It's a great view.

Prompto turns to say as much to Noct, and the words stick in his throat.

Noct's face is pale and smooth; his eyes, in the starlight, look almost black. His lips are parted, just a little, like the view's taken him by surprise, and Prompto gets a bit caught up in the shape of his mouth. He's not sure how anyone can be that attractive – not sure how he can still find himself floored by it, at inconvenient moments, all these years later.

Prompto swallows, hard – ignores the frantic rhythm of his own heart and heads toward the edge of the roof. "You coming?" he calls back.

He sits down and lets his legs dangle – feels the shift in the air when Noct comes to sit beside him.

He looks over and finds that Noct's eyes are on him, expression searching.

"What?" says Prompto. "I got something on my face?"

The smooth mask of Noct's expression crumbles; there's a smile underneath, and it crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Only like twenty thousand freckles," says Noct. "They're kind of all over the place."

It's true. They've been in the sun a lot. Prompto turns red as a lobster when he burns; then he peels, and the skin underneath transforms into an absolute freckle minefield. He groans – rubs at his face, like he can wipe them away. "Man," he says. "I need to get a hat or something. You guys are gonna have to stick a paper bag over my head, if this keeps up."

Noct's just kind of looking at him, a _close_ look, like he's trying to figure something out. He reaches over, casual as anything, to ruck up the sleeve of Prompto's t-shirt, and his fingers dragging over bare skin feels like a lightning spell igniting.

"They're all over your shoulders, too," says Noct, but he's not looking at Prompto's shoulder. He's looking at his face, and his lips are parted again, just a little, and Prompto's mouth is suddenly dry as the desert.

"Guess it's gonna have to be a really big paper bag," Prompto manages, over the thundering of his own heart.

Coming up here, he realizes hazily, was a bad idea. He's going to give himself away. He's going to get caught, after years of hiding it.

In the day, with a blue sky above them and the background noise of the car radio – with Ignis and Gladio always around – it's easier to forget how many nights have been filled with the image of Noct's lips pressing against his own.

Here and now, it's all he can think about.

Don't you dare, Prompto tells himself sternly. Don't you _dare_. He has a beautiful fiancé, and he's the actual king of Lucis, and you are Prompto nobody Argentum. You're lucky he even let you be his friend.

Prompto swallows, hard. He wrenches his gaze away, and he wracks his brain for a reason to head back inside. All he comes up with is, "Man, who'd have thought it gets so cold out here at night? I'm freezing."

It's not cold. The night breeze is warm and mild, but an excuse is an excuse, and Prompto will take what he can get at this point. Noct's eyes flicker his way – make a show of looking him over, from the ratty old t-shirt to the chocobo shorts that leave most of his legs bare.

Then he slings an arm around Prompto's shoulders and pulls him in close. "C'mere," he says. "I got you."

The words, "You wanna head back in?" die on Prompto's lips, unspoken. He's aware of every inch of his side pressed up against every inch of Noct's side, in hyper focus. He's kind of afraid his heart's gone into overdrive and may actually explode in his chest.

"Thanks, dude," he manages to croak out, when he thinks he can speak again. "That's way better."


	6. Desperation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: Desperation
> 
> I can't believe we're almost at the end. Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me through this week and stopped by to leave kudos or comments. I appreciate it so much. <3

Prompto can't stop shaking.

It's dumb. He knows that.

He's out, isn't he? His wrists are free from the metal shackles rubbing them raw, and his arms and legs are in a position that doesn't make them cramp up like someone's stabbing cactuar needles into the muscles. He can even breathe. Like, full breaths. Deep, actual, air-filled breaths that he doesn't have to struggle for.

He's had a lukewarm Cup Noodle that tasted better than the fine dining at Galdin Quay and a metric ton of bottled water. He's even managed to grab some sleep, curled up on one of the cots in the Zegnautus dorms.

He's still alive, and his friends are all here, and somehow – _somehow_ – they don't care that he's some kind of test tube monster instead of an actual human being.

Prompto's grateful, not just for that, but for all of it.

Like really, stupidly, overwhelmingly grateful.

For the first time in almost a month, things are starting to look up – but here he is, sitting on the side of his cot and just shaking.

Prompto's not stupid. He knows why he's doing it. It's because when he lay down to go to sleep, Gladio was standing guard by the door. But sometime while Prompto dozed, everyone else went to bed, too – barricaded the door from the inside and crashed out on the narrow cots.

And he doesn't blame them. He really doesn't. They've got to be just about as exhausted as he is.

But every time he looks at the door, he pictures it sliding open and Ardyn stepping through, and he has to bite down on his lip to keep from losing it.

"Hey," says a voice somewhere to his left, and Prompto starts, jerks – turns to see Noct, sleep-mussed and bleary-eyed, squinting over at him. "How long have you been up?"

"Uh," says Prompto. "I dunno. Half an hour maybe?" He trails into awkward silence – realizes he ought to say something else, and scrambles to add, "You should go back to bed, though. I'm cool."

Noct doesn't go back to bed.

He sits up – rubs at his eyes and slides his legs over the side of the cot. He doesn't even have to walk over; the bunks are that crammed together. He just stands up and then sits down on Prompto's cot, instead.

"You okay?" says Noct, and he's got this look fixed on Prompto, like he can see how close he is to falling apart.

"Yeah," says Prompto. "Just glad to be out of there, you know?"

Gods, he wishes he could stop shaking. Noct's going to see.

Maybe Noct already _has_ seen, because he leans over and tugs Prompto in against him, one arm at first, but then both, warm and encircling.

Prompto takes a breath in. He takes another. He lifts his arms, feeling like he's in a dream, and clings with his fingers to the back of Noct's t-shirt, holding as hard as he can.

It hits so suddenly it knocks the breath out of him: the nightmare race through the train, at the wrong end of Noct's sword. The stinging chill of the snow. The terror, and the exhaustion, and the sickening revelation.

The way it feels to be at someone else's mercy, alone and in pain.

He doesn't realize he's shaking harder until one of Noct's arms relaxes its hold so it can rub Prompto's back.

It feels nice.

Prompto presses his face into the crook where Noct's neck meets his shoulder. He tells himself that he's fine now. He needs to sit up, and say he's okay, and pretend he's holding it together way better than he actually is.

But seconds turn into minutes, and none of those things quite seem to happen. He just soaks in the feeling of Noct's hand running over his back and tries to keep from shaking apart.

Finally, after what feels like years, he goes to pull back. "Sorry about that, dude."

Noct gives him a look that's hard to parse, sidelong and searching. "No sorries allowed," he says. "Royal decree."

"Hard to argue with that.” A smile tugs at the corner of Prompto’s lips, tired but genuine.

"You better not," says Noct, "cause I've got another one. It’s bedtime for you, buddy."

"Yeah?" says Prompto.

"Yeah," says Noct. "You still look exhausted."

Now’s when Prompto should mention the nightmare that woke him: Ardyn’s face, and Ardyn’s voice, and lying helpless while Ardyn’s hands make new bruises.

Now’s when he should mention that there’s a reason he didn’t go back to sleep in the first place.

Instead, Prompto says, "Well, I guess if it's a royal decree."

He settles himself back onto the cot, by slow degrees. He eases himself down so that his head's on the thin pillow and his legs are back under the scratchy blankets. He expects that Noct will sit with him for a few minutes, and then, when Prompto's pretended to be asleep for long enough, he'll return to the other cot to get some rest, himself.

Gods know he needs it. Gods know they all do.

But Noct doesn't sit with him. He burrows right in under the blankets by Prompto, and the cot's so narrow their knees bump. They're face to face, maybe six inches apart, and then Noct slides an arm around Prompto's shoulders and draws him in closer, and there's way less than six inches.

Something buried deep inside him flickers to uncertain life at the contact, like a lightbulb on its last legs. There’s a dull ache in his chest, now, on top of all the other aches he's earned during days of captivity.

"Go back to sleep," says Noct.

Prompto swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure. You, too.”

But his eyes don’t close, and neither do Noct’s. They’re just lying there, staring, so close they're breathing each other's air.

Don't, Prompto thinks. Don't you dare.

But maybe the reasonable part of Prompto's brain has finally packed up and left for good, because he can't think of a single reason not to kiss his best friend.

So he stops thinking at all – just leans forward and presses his lips against Noct's. The contact is brief, and warm, and careful. There's no open-mouthed passion; there's no cataclysmic clap of thunder. It's nothing like Prompto used to imagine at sixteen years old, alone in his bedroom, hand slipped furtively into his boxers.

Noct's lips are surprisingly soft, and Prompto's eyes shiver closed to enjoy it.

Then, with something very like regret, he pulls away.

Noct's just watching him, when he opens his eyes again. There's nothing telling in his expression – no change at all, except for the slight flush that turns his cheeks a dusky pink.

But this time, it's Noct that leans forward. This time, it's Noct's mouth nuzzling against his, and Prompto makes a small, surprised noise and presses into it.

It's still nothing like Prompto used to imagine at sixteen, but it's more thorough, this time.

When Noct opens his mouth and Prompto responds in kind – when tongues start to get involved – it's slow and exploratory, not rushed and frantic.

Prompto wonders, with a flush of sudden self-consciousness, if it's blatantly obvious that he has no idea what he's doing. Then Noct's teeth scrape over his bottom lip, and the contrasting texture sends a warm tendril of want curling down his spine, and he forgets all about it.

They take their time. They're slow, almost lazy, breaking for air and coming back together again. The heat building in Prompto isn't like the lava on Mt. Ravatogh; it starts low, like a campfire, but Noct keeps feeding in scraps of kindling, and before long Prompto's altogether too aware of how close they are, of how long he's wanted this, of the maddening fact that Ignis and Gladio are still in the room.

"Noct," he says, quietly, when they break again, and Noct holds off, waiting to see what he'll say. But Prompto can't make up his mind; he's caught somewhere between, "We should stop," and "We should find another dorm," and instead of saying either, he ducks back in again, clumsily, to keep going.

Noct tugs him closer, and whatever space was left between them disappears. Noct's flush against him from shoulder to knee, and Noct's hand drifts up to thread into his hair, and he can feel Noct's chest rise and fall when he breathes, faster now, less steady.

Prompto shifts, all too aware of how tight his jeans have grown. He shifts again, alarmed when that simple motion sends a heady rush of pleasure through him.

Reluctantly, Prompto pulls back. "Noct," he says again, but it's more strained this time.

Noct's eyes flicker out to one side – he turns a little, toward the cots where Ignis lies still and silent and Gladio sprawls, snoring.

Then he licks his lips, quite deliberately, and leans in to nuzzle at the skin just underneath Prompto's jaw.

Prompto bites down on the noise that threatens to slip past his lips. It comes out a startled huff of air, and Prompto's hands cup the back of Noct's head, holding him in place.

Noct's attentive mouth kissing its way down Prompto's throat is the best thing he thinks he's ever felt. He can't quite seem to stay still – keeps shifting, restlessly, for the delicious change in pressure that comes with the movement.

Noct breaks off with a ragged gasp. Just the sound of it sends want cascading over Prompto, thick and warm and dizzying. He shifts again – presses in harder, rocking his hips forward.

It's just right: glorious friction.

Prompto does it again, and again, not quite able to stop, and Noct makes a quiet noise somewhere at the back of his throat. He reaches down between them, with fumbling fingers, for Prompto's zipper. "Prom," he breathes. "Prompto. Can we – ?"

Prompto's gaze skitters, half wild, toward where Ignis and Gladio still sleep, but he's nodding before he can think it through, whispering, "Yes," and, "Gods," and, "Please."

Then Noct's got the zipper down, and nothing else matters, because the hand on him is twenty different kinds of incredible. Prompto makes a choked sound and lurches forward, eyes squeezing shut against the pleasure, and Noct starts to move, picking up a steady pace.

Prompto's shaking again, but it's for a whole different reason, this time. He bites down on his lip, hard – manages to work Noct's pants open and reciprocate, and then Noct's shaking a little bit, too.

When they kiss, Prompto's almost desperate, lost in the feeling of Noct's fingers and the slick wet heat of Noct's mouth. He feels like a spring wound too tight. Desire's coiled low in his stomach; his thighs are tense and trembling, and his toes are starting to curl.

Then Noct twists his wrist just right, and the pad of his thumb catches with just the right pressure, and that's all it takes. Prompto whines into the kiss as he finishes, and for a minute, he forgets everything else. All that matters is the sensation that's crashing over him in waves.

When he can think again, he opens his eyes to find Noct watching him. Prompto smiles, lazy and affectionate – picks up where he left off and gets a front row seat to every tiny change in Noct's expression as he works him over the edge.

He engraves it in his memory: the way Noct's eyes widen. The way his eyelashes stand out against the pale of his skin. The bead of sweat on his temple, and the tiny gasp he sucks in between clenched teeth, and the way his fingers close on Prompto's forearm when he comes.

After, Prompto can't stop smiling. He's sure it's the world's dumbest smile, and he just doesn't care.

After, Noct leans in like he's going to share the secrets of the universe, and he whispers, solemnly, "The sheets are all gross," and they both get the giggles and then can't stop, until they're laughing so hard they're afraid Iggy and Gladio will wake up.

After, they switch to the other cot, the one where the sheets aren't gross.

They lie forehead to forehead, and they twine their fingers together, and they drift off to sleep that way, so close they're breathing each other's air.


	7. Stay With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 7: Stay With Me
> 
> Here we go, folks, day 7. Thank you so much for sticking with me, and for all the kind words. <3
> 
> And most importantly: Happy Promptis Week to all of us! :)

"I'll stay with him," says Prompto, and he's proud that his voice doesn't break.

Gladio gives him a good looking-over. "The roads aren't great," he says. "It might be a couple of days before we can clear a path and make it back."

"I know," says Prompto.

Ignis is silent for a long moment. At last he says, "None of us should be alone just now."

"Neither should he," says Prompto, and this time his voice _does_ break. The pressure in his chest is awful, some swollen, terrible weight that makes him want to choke.

"C'mon, Iggy," says Gladio. "Sooner we get out of here, the sooner we'll be back."

And Ignis nods, reluctantly, and lets himself be led away.

Then the only one left is Prompto.

He's not sure what to do with himself – not really. So he circles around to the place where they've set the table up. It's one of those big mahogany deals, narrow and long, from the Council chamber. It's draped with black cloth, and it looks pretty elegant, even when it's sitting in the middle of an absolute wreck of a throne room.

"Hey," says Prompto. "Guess you're stuck with me for a little while. I just thought it kinda sucked, you know? Everyone going off and leaving you."

The figure under the black fabric doesn't reply.

Prompto glances over, and knows instantly that it's a mistake.

He can make out the face lying there, motionless, beneath the thin cloth: the curve of his forehead and the straight slope of his nose. The hollows of his eyes. The way his arms are folded, hands settled on his sword, like all the dead kings in their old statues. Trust Iggy to be a stickler for detail.

Prompto looks away again, and he blinks back tears.

"This whole thing sucks," says Prompto, even quieter.

That's not everything he wants to say – not by a long shot. He could talk about ten long years without a sun. He could talk about hoping that a daemon would catch him off guard and put an end to the waiting. He could talk about an unending night, with nothing but old photographs to keep him company.

He could talk about yesterday, when he realized that Noct wasn't back to stay.

Prompto opens his mouth to try – closes it again.

It feels weird, to be talking to a mound of black cloth instead of Noct's face. It feels weird – and anyway. Anyway, this is kind of his last chance to see his best friend.

His hands are shaking a little, when he reaches out for the makeshift shroud. He pulls it away inch by inch, unveiling skin that's gone a sallow grey, and features still and peaceful in death.

Noct's eyes are closed; Gladio saw to that. The blood that had splattered up from the wound in his chest has been wiped gently away, and the photograph he took from Prompto's collection is tucked into the breast pocket of his fancy royal suit.

"Hey, buddy," says Prompto.

All of a sudden, he can't remember any of the things he'd wanted to say. All of a sudden, the words dry up like water in the desert outside of Hammerhead. His eyes skirt Noct's still form again. He takes in the composed face; the crisp lines of the suit; the corner of that single photograph.

Prompto tries to smile, but it crumples around the edges like wet paper.

He reaches for the picture – eases it out, carefully, with two fingers. "You know, you could've had more than one, if you wanted. You could've had them all."

He stares down at it, there in his hands: the four of them, at the very beginning, crowded around a car that's sleek and gleaming.

They all look so young. They're all smiling.

Prompto blinks, hard. "I guess if you only get the one, though, this is a pretty good one."

He reaches to return it to its rightful place, but his hand hesitates before he quite gets there.

There's something else poking out of Noct's pocket, some wisp of red-orange, and Prompto goes to pluck it aside. Maybe some sense of Iggy's propriety has rubbed off on him, after all these years, but that little splash of color seems out of place, in all the black.

So Prompto pulls, and out it comes – a little red feather, lying there in the palm of his hand.

He stares down at it for a moment, blankly. It's been years since he's seen one; in a world overrun by daemons, anything that will help get a person back up on their feet is a precious commodity. Every phoenix down he knows of has long been used up.

But here one is, bright as the rising sun against the skin of his hand.

Here one is, and Prompto finds that he's shaking, all at once, staring down at the soft edges.

There's something lodged in his throat, so sharp and unyielding that he's sure it's going to split him open. It's tender, and bright, and Prompto tries to shove it back down with both hands.

"The king's magic makes them work," says the reasonable part of Prompto's brain, which has returned during ten long years of darkness. "And the king is dead."

But Prompto lifts a trembling hand and presses the feather to Noct's chest.

He never has been very good at reasonable.

"Please," he whispers. "Please."

For a moment, nothing happens. The feather is just a feather, there against the black of the outfit that's meant to be Noct's funeral garb.

Then a flame licks to life, and another, and they're rushing out along the curve of Noct's folded arms and the still-covered lines of his legs. They touch his face, where the skin fades from grey to cream, and they wreath his head like a halo, and those lips, set so still and waxy, part and gasp in a breath.

They gasp in another.

Suddenly Noct's coughing, and Prompto's _crying_ , and for a second he can't move. He's standing frozen there like an idiot, just staring.

"What?" says Noct, and his voice is ragged and uncertain. "H-how –?"

Prompto makes himself move.

He throws himself at Noct, hard, just as he's starting to sit up, and Noct goes to put his hand back to catch the weight of both of them but finds only open air. Then Noct's falling from the fancy mahogany table that was supposed to be his funeral bed, and they're both sitting on the floor in reams of black cloth that should have been a shroud.

"What," says Noct again. "What the hell?"

But Prompto's crying too hard to answer: deep, ugly sobs that he's been holding back since they found Noct seated on the throne, his father's sword through his chest.

They all come tearing free now, so harsh and unrestrained that it hurts. It feels like something's being ripped out of him.

Prompto clenches his fingers in Noct's shirt, and he ignores the shoulder decorations on his stupid fancy cloak, and he clings like letting go will sentence Noct to death all over again.

There are probably reasons why this shouldn't be possible. Iggy might know them; Gladio, too. They grew up in the Citadel, where you can throw a rock and hit a painting of the prophecy. They probably know the whole damn thing by heart.

But Prompto's just some nobody, and he doesn't know the ins and outs of some thousand-year-old declaration from the gods.

What's more, he doesn't _care_.

The only important thing is that the shoulders his arms are wrapped around are starting to shake, and the chest pressed up against his is still breathing, and Noct's arms are lifting, hesitantly, to pull Prompto as close as he can get.


End file.
